


Saatelaev

by beautifullyheeled



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fae, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Beltane, Faunlock, Fawnlock, First Meetings, Frottage, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pagan Festivals, Post - Trauma, Purple Prose, Recovery, Rites of Passage, Soulmates, Spring Solstice, handjobs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-11
Updated: 2014-08-11
Packaged: 2018-02-12 18:05:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2119602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beautifullyheeled/pseuds/beautifullyheeled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the near decimation of his Torchwood team, Sherlock retreats to the family cottage to heal. As spring unfolds, the forest awakens, bringing someone he never expected into his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. New Surroundings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sherlockianstudy](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Sherlockianstudy).



> This is an Exchangelock prompt fill for Sherlockianstudy. They stated most AU's were fine, and mentioned fawnlock in their list of possibles so I ran with it. This already has a sequel planned to bookend it. I do hope you enjoy!
> 
> Love and Light  
> ~Diann
> 
> Terminology within the End Notes. Playlist at bottom of work.

The forest seemed quiet as the single lane road led him into the shaded arms of the old trees. The only sound at the moment was the soft shush of breeze that caused the leaves to dance as he drove down the tamped drive. He took a deep breath, realising he had been practically holding it since he had stopped in the little village that was the only connection to humanity for thirty-six kilometers. The solitude of where he would be staying was like a peaceful balm.

For this, he was thankful.

It had been harrowing, the whole ordeal with Jim. Victor had tried to warn him, and then had almost died due to their friendship. Sherlock understood if Victor never wanted to see him again. The brilliant-scientist-cum-madman had put everyone’s life on the line and the blame fell squarely at Sherlock’s feet. Or so he felt.

Mycroft had come in to oversee everything; the lab had been isolated on purpose so had had little interference or oversight. They hadn’t really needed it. Molly and Victor worked marvelously at the morgue, Greg and most of his crew were the best of the best the military could outsource. Of course, within a year, they had officially been moved to under Mycroft’s care and given personal comms, just as everyone who worked within this level of Torchwood did. It was supposed to be a safety measure, but it almost had dire consequences for them all when Jim used them as beacons to round them up. Sebastian had helped as well, until Moriarty put him in with the others to slowly freeze to death.

Sherlock shook his head, giving the thoughts a mental shove into one of his ‘rooms’ and locked the door tightly. Time to focus on new surroundings. It was early spring, not many fauna out and about he noted. He supposed the engine of the SUV most likely didn’t help either. He could see the cottage and was amazed it could be considered such a thing. The home was large; almost whimsical in design, though it seemed very well maintained. There was even a little garden just beginning to flourish. Of course Mycroft would have seen to this.

He parked by the potting shed, grabbed the first of several small boxes out of the back of the vehicle and opened his new domicile up. The brass knob felt cool in his hand as he pushed the door open and viewed the interior. It was welcoming. That was a good word for his mind to instantly supply... better than stuffy or inhospitable. No, this would do nicely. The openness of the ground floor surprised him, but the decor and mostly natural walls and flooring seemed to just fit. He placed the box down and found his way into the kitchen. Polished surfaces everywhere. Mostly industrial. Good for the work. He flicked the kettle on after filling it, half humming to himself already. This was exactly what he needed.

Much later that evening, most things unpacked, bookshelves in use, his violin case open to give time for the instrument to get used to the slight climate change, Sherlock felt almost content. He’d be getting his bees soon, in the next week, and he still needed to set up for them, but all in all it was finished. He had made a small risotto for himself and now sat comfortably on the old sofa; sprawled out after he had plucked a book from the shelves inset by the fireplace. Sherlock had purchased the book about local flora and edibility, both for his use in gathering food as well as facilitating knowledge on what best to plant. The less he had to interact, the better.

Full of hot tea and warm from the fire, Sherlock found himself dozing off. It startled him for a moment then realised he must finally be relaxing for once. Maybe he might actually get a full five hours without nightmares. He placed the book beside the tea and banked the fire low before going through to make sure everything was locked. Silly, he knew, but he couldn’t feel safe without it.

The first floor was dark, he’d forgotten to turn a light on earlier, so he fumbled down the hall in the moonlight slightly disoriented. Sherlock made a mental note to make sure he had nightlights plugged in by the next evening. This wouldn’t do at all. His long fingers trailed along the wooden wainscoting until he reached his bedroom and depressed the light switch.

Better.

The small chandelier glowed warmly in the well-appointed room. This was a cottage, but the bed spoke of familial familiarity. The ornate beast of a four post bed dominated the room; even his mossy green velvet duvet had been neatly folded at the foot for him. Sherlock allowed himself a small smile and warm thought towards Mycroft, but then quickly ended it. Sibling affection just wouldn’t do.

He disrobed quickly, then moved to lock his bedroom door. Both the handle and the top slide bolt, he decided, before checking the bedside drawer and pulling out his Sig and placing it on the top by the lamp. Better. Sherlock sunk onto the bed and curled up, covering himself in the heavy bedding. It was barely ten and he felt as if it were four. Blinking, his eyes finally closed, lamp still on.

~~~~~

Sunlight played with the particulates in the air as it filtered through the lace under-curtains. He’d have to remember to shut the heavy drapes at night. But this wasn’t London, wasn’t even Cardif or Dublin. He was safe here. There was no need to shut away the night. His mobile chimed at him in his pockets, still there from when he’d undressed. Sloppy of him; tonight he would have it on the charger before he disrobed. Sherlock grabbed his trousers, pulling the mobile out, thumbing through his messages as he dropped the clothing back to the floor and headed into the en-suite and started the bath.

Mycroft, his mother, his landlady- He understood they were all concerned, but these constant reminders would not help him. The responses he fired back were not offensive, but terse. Why remind him why he was out there at every turn? How did they expect him to work? To continue on and move forward? All of that rubbish. The mobile found its place on the counter with a click before Sherlock once again turned his attention to the bath after his morning piss.

Sherlock sighed heavily as he sank into the water. It quickly became a hiss, but the pain was manageable, almost welcome. It meant he was healing. He laid back against the slippered back of the farmhouse tub and grabbed the flannel hanging off of the holder; getting it wet, just to ring it out again and lie it over his face. His hands loosely began rubbing the fine milled soap along his arms and chest before placing it back on the wire dish that was hooked to the side of the bath. Sherlock rinsed, the bubbles falling away easily into the water, his thoughts with them.

His sigh was one of contentment. Rare, yes, but perhaps it would be a  little less so out here.

He found the soap again and gingerly washed the rest of his body, paying attention to his mobility and smiling when his skin did not ache as much today as it had the day before. Again, there was progress. Something he could intellectually mark off. There were other indications as well of his healing, not unwanted, but he was slow to deal with it. His body though, hummed with the simple pleasures he’d indulged in, what was one more? He removed the flannel from his face, letting it drop into the water.

Long fingers pressed themselves down his own torso, then back up again. Sherlock concentrated on his breathing as his fingers ghosted along in the water against uninterrupted skin. It had been a while since he had pleasured himself, the memories too close, but now it was only him. Only his voice in his head, a light tune spinning itself into being as he lazily dipped his hand lower to grasp himself. The huff of a noise he made fell on muted ears as he listened to the soft music in his head, keeping his strokes firm, but slow, as a counterpoint to the soft unfurling melody.

Sherlock hummed softly, pleasure zinging through him as his other hand wandered to his bollocks and tugged. The hum turned into a rough moan. His cock thickened in his hand as he teased at the slit before twisting and tugging upward, covering himself with his foreskin before pulling it down below the crown. It felt so good. So pure. The push and give of his own body.

A light sweat broke across his brow as he grunted, releasing his bollocks to push inside of himself with a single finger. This; god, he needed. He pressed in another swiftly on the next stroke, filling himself more. Sherlock adjusted his bollocks; pressed against them with the heel of his hand as his other hand picked up in pace. His heart pumped a sweet staccato against his ribs as he felt himself wind deliciously towards orgasm.

A few more moments and the constriction of muscles and vessels squeezed perfectly . He moaned deeply, the waves of chemicals released in a rush into his system. It was a heightened buzz that almost set his teeth on edge, but the languorous zone that followed was superlative. The white haze fogged his thoughts and made him drowsy. Sherlock gently removed his fingers with a slight wince. Even that was worth it. He toed the catch so that the water could drain and gingerly stepped out of the deep tub and moved into the zero entry shower to rinse and finish washing up. Once clean to his satisfaction, he wrapped up in his robe. He felt spent. Drained. Calm.

His body wanted rest, but his mind demanded tea as it was morning. Ever the addict. Even if it was only caffeine. Sherlock smirked and headed down to his kitchen, flicking on the kettle and then opening the side door to the garden and the little flagstone area just a few steps down where he would go and enjoy his tea and read for a while until he deemed it time to dress. Soon he would have his hives and he could watch the bees buzzing through the flickering morning shadows. Rest and recuperation, that was the plan, wasn’t it?

He was halfway through his second cup when he heard a noise and looked up quickly. For a moment there was a rushing shadow. He shook his head, just a deer probably But the hair on the back of his neck stood on end and he had a feeling he was being watched. He took a few deep breaths. No, that was ridiculous. If nothing else, only Mycroft knew he was here, and he would have cleared the area ahead of time, right?

Biting his lip, Sherlock got up and went in to get dressed. The Sig went on his hip, comfortable. Better safe then sorry, after all.

[Saatelaev Playlist](http://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLoyfU46PkkYCPPdxLfADXaHTRY2jv18l_)


	2. Of Hives and Tea and Meetings Between the Leaves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Terminology within the End Notes.

The first few weeks here had been quiet. He didn’t quite lose the feeling he was being watched, but chalked it up to all his recent experiences. Besides, for all he knew, Mycroft could have a live feed going. At least he could actually think, and eventually, relax. Let his him mind wander into infinite possibilities as he worked in his garden, talked to his bees, took fastidious notes on both. It had surprised Sherlock that he had settled so well. It wouldn’t be for forever, he knew that, but for the time being, the restful forest seemed to be exactly what he needed. 

Small tray in hand, he made his way to the round patio table to set it and his book down. He smiled to himself as he saw the first few of his bees just beginning to explore in the morning sun. They danced along the petite buds and wild blooms closest to them. Still warming then, he supposed. He took a sip of his tea then realised he’d forgotten to grab his knife, so he headed back in. It took him longer than he would have liked as his mobile shrilly reminded him he had not contacted Mycroft yet. Sending off a terse text he left it on the counter and went back outside to his cooling tea. Maybe he should tell the imperious bastard to lay off on the surveillance.

Sherlock froze just inside the doorway. His breath hitched. There was a faun in his garden. It was too early in the season for the light coloured head to have antlers yet-

Sandy coloured human-ish hair? Coarse looking, but-

He had officially cracked.

But what a wonderful type of visual break to have. Peaceful, with nothing of what could have been; well, best not to think such things and invite them. His feet quietly took the steps down to the flagstone, then, he waited, his eyes trained on the obviously foraging creature. Sherlock wracked through his mind palace to discern what exactly he had conjured into being. From what he could glimpse, it looked as if the beast was humanoid. His toes slipped out of his soft shoes as he crouched in an attempt to seem non-threatening and began moving around the far side hoping not to spook the mythological creature. Sherlock was almost where he could see all of the being when some bracken shifted under his foot.

There was immediate movement. Sherlock crouched lower, ready to bodily take down whatever it was.

The faun had blue eyes. From the blond head to narrow waist, the being was mostly human looking. Fine broad chest that was perfectly muscular, arms that were defined well. There were markings... not tattoos... darker melanin areas that just hinted at a pattern. Worked with his hands; obvious Sherlock supposed. He, well the sex was a bit... but most definitely male. The faun’s skin had dark golden brown hair, even more wiry than that on his head. It covered some of his sex but it was the large bollocks and slightly flared base of the long... well. Sherlock blushed heavily as he heard another long intake of air and noticed the foreskin shrink back some on the faun’s member.

Oh.

He raised his eyes back up the other’s before speaking. “I’m Sherlock. And given your form... you are some sort of forest being, meaning you most certainly shouldn’t understand a single word I am saying. Then again, you are most likely a figment of a visual psychotic break-”

“I do understand.” The faun took a step towards Sherlock. _Those were definitely hooves of some sort_ , his mind unhelpfully noted “Some. You are family. One of those who own this- home.”

Sherlock eyed _him_ warily. There was no reason for, well, _him_. His family had told stories to them as children of course, but for it to be real...

“Yes, I am. That still does not tell me who you are.” He took a step back as the faun approached. “Should I know who you are?”

“Stories about us, were you not told?” The creature stopped and inhaled again. “No fear, Sh’lock. I am J’hn... John. A _hermaður_... protector. You are the keeper here?” His inquisitive eyes looked at Sherlock as if he were just as fascinated. “No hurt. Promise. Scent, I can scent you.”

“Scent? Oh.” Sherlock stood upright then settled forcing himself to be still and not back further away. It was true he felt no sense of malice from John.

“Spring. It brings... many things. Life.” John smiled warmly walking slowly towards Sherlock, his hand extended as if to touch.

“Yes, it does. One of the reasons I am here.” Sherlock held his ground though his eyes were now on the extended hand. “I’m studying the hives.”

“Yes,” John’s hand made contact with Sherlock’s elbow. Just a whisper of touch that turned into a gentle hold. “I can scent it on you. And the newness... are you in... season?”

“No, I was... injured,” Sherlock’s cheeks burned. He could feel the warmth of the flush and instantly tried to control it. Why would he react that way to such a simple question. How could this faun tell that he was, well, different. Pheromones? He knew he had let his gaze linger, but he was also categorising a new species that was apparently very real. “But it shouldn’t smell of anything. There’s no blood, just bruising.”

“Who?!” John’s demeanor instantly changed as he inhaled sharply, his eyes turning toward the cottage as if to look inside. “Who harm you. You do not harm mate. No one does.”

“I’m-” Sherlock looked the faun directly in the eyes though he felt slightly unsettled. As if he were the one being measured. “John, I’m not a doe. I’m male... a buck?” He hoped the terminology translated properly, especially since John thought he was female.

“No, you are a doe.” His voice had gone gruff, but honeyed tones seeped through still as his hand moved from Sherlock’s elbow to his shoulder bringing them closer. Sherlock trembled and then immediately regretted it as John began to move away. “I will not harm you, Sherlock. Who did?”

Sherlock could hear the softness in John’s voice. “I do not need pity... It was a very bad person. I’m almost healed. It is fine.” Why was he opening up to this... to John. It was outside of the realm of sanity if he had to put a fine point to it. “I need my tea.”

He broke the touch and headed toward the cottage, picking up his cold tea and dumping it on the rosemary just outside the cottage door as he entered. Sherlock flicked his kettle back on and grumbled to himself, forgetting he was not alone as he zoned in on his own thoughts. The soft shuffle of noise at the counter brought him back to the present.

“Strawberries. Not wild so they might not be as sweet as you like.”

Why on earth was he being hospitable? He wasn’t lonely. He had been enjoying the quiet of the enveloping forest and the data collection from his hives.

“Not. You are right.” John’s voice sounded mildly put off which made Sherlock chuckle. He watched as John pushed the container far away from himself.

“Do you like tea? Have you had it? You seem familiar with-”

“Yes. Three cubes. No- milk.” Once again the sound of disgust was tempered with a chuckle.

“I can see how humans drinking another’s milk might seem odd.” Sherlock handed him a cup almost full to the brim. “Is it unpalatable to you?”

“It is... not sustaining,” John bent and sniffed before sipping and shaking his head. “Hot!”

“Let it cool, John. Here try this, its a scone... I have jam if you’d like... it’s sweet. Locally made?”

John picked up the scone and examined it before dipping it into the jam jar and offering it to Sherlock. “Bite. Eat.”

Sherlock scrunched his nose, but complied, not wanting to offend the faun. Maybe this was a cultural act as ‘family style’ eating in several different human cultures were the norm. The bite was more than he normally would take, but maybe one generous bite would be enough.

“Thank you, John.” Sherlock stated after a sip of his tea. He watched as John dipped another side and offered again. “No, you have it. I do not eat very much.”

“Eat, S’lock... Sh’rlock.” Those blue eyes pinned him and he accepted the bite once again. “Feed you. Small.”

“I’m quite tall, thank you.”

Sherlock knew that was not what John was speaking of, but who was this faun to come in and make him eat. He never placated anyone and yet here he was finishing off a scone because John had ordered him to do so.

“Willow is nice, yes.” John smiled and licked his fingers one at a time, closing his eyes as he did so. “Doe needs to be cared for when in season.”

Sherlock turned quickly and looked out the kitchen window. “Not. In. Season.”

He didn’t hear John move around the table, but next he knew the faun was just behind him; the soft whuf of breath teased his neck as his voice spoke softly in his hear. “You are a doe... _charitoméni polemistís_. Your scent, Sher’lock. Sweet, warm... no musk. Soft.”

“John,” Sherlock closed his eyes. What on earth was going on with him; his transport. He felt comfortable even with John just behind and to the left of him, his hands now steady on Sherlock’s arms. Just holding him.

“Time, not yet time?”

“I never will be in season, you must understand this.” He tried to hold his temper and think. This being was more than just interesting. Sherlock was interested about him. “No child. Ever.”

“I will never hurt you, Sher’lock.” John nuzzled the nape of his neck, his fingers sliding down Sherlock’s arms to hold them close together. “I will be soft. Gentle.” The faun sounded so earnest. “Soon. Let me make bed? Will take time.”

“I do not see the reasoning behind it,” Sherlock pulled away slowly. “You’re not even the same species...” Moving to the fireplace, he rested his hands on the mantle.

It was insane. This being wanting to be with him was more of a primal need. John would be wasting his time. They did not even know one another, though given today's society and the mating sphere in general, this could be considered ‘casual’. He still did not understand the pull he felt, could not deny curiosity and desire. How much had everything unhinged him? Was this a dream? No. He knew it wasn’t. John was real and Sherlock was attracted to the solid compactness of the faun.

“I will be your mate,” John spoke behind him. “I will make your arbour.” His hand pressed against Sherlock’s lower back. “In the evening, I will come.”

John smiled softly as his ear twitched; possibly in amusement. He kissed Sherlock’s nape once more then was out the kitchen door. Sherlock stood in wonder. How had his day turned so rapidly? How in the wide world had _this_ occurred. He moved to recover his now cold tea and begin for the third time that morning to brew a cuppa for himself. It was time to take notes and it would give him time to sort out what he felt.

That caused him to chuckle. The deep sound in his chest almost startling him. Had it been that long since he had laughed? Possible. Shrugging the revelation off, Sherlock finished steeping the leaves and placed the ball on the counter as he took a deep sip. Yes, this and some time with the bees was just what he needed.

 

[Saatelaev Playlist](http://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLoyfU46PkkYCPPdxLfADXaHTRY2jv18l_)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sõdalane - warrior, soldier  
> charitoméni polemistís - graceful warrior (attracted to same sex)


	3. Beltane Nights and Arbours of Delight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Terminology within the End Notes.

He spoke to his bees, laying amongst the longer grasses between the rows in his garden as they buzzed to and fro from hive to flower to water and back again. Their larger dance that encompassed their own smaller dances to impart information. It was fascinating. Sherlock had decided mid-discussion that perhaps he should go with John that evening. See what he had been talking about, then bring him back to the cottage for dinner and company. Try to talk sense into the being. 

Doe. 

What on earth had he meant by that? Sherlock could understand the scent markers John might have drawn his conclusion from... he prefered spicy florals in his milled soaps and he had been agitated. Fine. Curious. Possibly aroused. But why? Why did he feel so at ease with the faun in such proximity. He’d not let another person touch him in so long... yet here John was. He continued to contemplate well through lunch and as he sat with a coffee, he watched the sun just begin to dip past the trees, signalling the oncoming night. Sherlock decided this might be a bit too much and stood to go back into the house when he heard it. The soft hum was rich; pleasing enough that he found himself closing his eyes and just listening. 

It seemed to tap into something deep within him. His pulse became the beat to the melodic tones that washed over him. 

“What-” The word was full of wonder.

“Ours, Sher’lock. Will you come with me?” 

“Yes,” Sherlock heard himself say in an out-of-body way. As he spoke and yet heard himself in third person. “Yes, I will come with you John.”

“Accept this.” The faun came up from behind placing a crown of myrtle interspersed with primroses and small white flowers he did not recognise. Once placed, John pressed gently on his shoulders, bidding for his full attention.

He turned, seeing John as if for the first time all over again. The faun had a large crown of hawthorn, heavy with open roses and lilacs between his antlers. Thin vines that dipped and fell from it wrapped his arms, as if a part of him. John must have been dusted with some sort of resin, because he _shimmered_ ; well at least his shoulders and chest did as he turned and offered his hand. It was... handsome. The overall effect of the visual with the heady aroma of the flowers and of John himself was overwhelming him. It must be, as it seemed as if the faun had gained height as well as sturdiness. 

“Magnificent.” He whispered as his hand found John’s. 

“I am glad I please you, Sherlock.” John’s voice was soft, soothing, his hand open and welcoming. “Come, my doe.”

John led him out of his home, out his garden gate, and to the edge of the forest. He smiled, a quiet assured sort of smile, then pulled Sherlock through the break and into the forest proper. Where there had been no discernable path, one now gently wound through the bracken, lit by luminous mushrooms and lichen along the footpath every so often. Sherlock heard soft sounds deeply hidden amongst the trees. He thought of long ago madrigals and their lutes and lyres and toms with clear voices that rang like bells from the steeples. 

As they wound through the woods, their footfalls brought them further into the interior of the old forest, small flowers began to open as if in welcome. Sherlock found himself almost drowsy which was surprising, as he hardly ever slept. He shook it off mentally and followed everything with his eyes. It was magical. This was magic. There was nothing else that could cause this, unless he was asleep and this all had been one long dream, a thought which he had not yet discounted. 

“We are here,” John stopped at the opening of a dry cave. The wide entrance looked low, but then Sherlock saw that the floor dipped almost like natural steps. “I hope that I have pleased you, my doe.” 

The faun dipped his chin just enough to make it a bow and then motioned for Sherlock to head inside. What greeted him was a dry open space lit by soft flickering light, something akin to a candle, but nothing he had ever seen before. The bower itself was a low bed of soft greens haloed by multi-hued flowers and half covered by a sheer sort of material that itself seemed imbued with light. It had more of the tendriled vines, like those on John’s shoulders and arms, but gathered to flow down like posters of a bed with orange flowers just barely beginning to open. The closer he came to it, he could pick up hints of rosemary and sandalwood. It felt decadent and whimsical all at once, he couldn’t help but smile. 

“John. This is-” 

“All for you,” John’s hand came up behind him and gripped his hand once again to lead him towards the bed. “Let me care for you, Sherlock.” 

“What does this mean, all of this? Can you explain?” Sherlock bit on his lower lip, his nerves beginning to remind him of what he came to escape. “I haven’t been touched in a- I don’t know if I can be touched.”

“If you cannot, I will stay with you Sherlock.” John’s eyes had turned kind and wistful. There was a simmering of emotions, just under the surface. “I told you no harm, my doe. I swear it. This that has been done before, I cannot undo.” The fauns other hand moved to cup Sherlock’s face. “It will not again.”

Sherlock offered his hand to John, his eyes half closed as his nerves jangled making him feel at odd ends. He wanted to be _with_ the faun. Wrapped around one another, nothing between them. Just soft touching and warm breath at his ear gently moving his curls. His hands roaming the sturdy shoulders and back of his... He took a steadying breath and stepped so close there were only his clothes between them. 

“I trust you, John.”

“Slow, then.” John soothed with words and gentle encouragement. “Your heart trembles. Do not fear me, you are mine to keep.”

The faun took the long fingers and pressed them to his lips. Sherlock was warm, his cheeks flushed as John dropped their hands low and met his mouth before pulling back just enough to look into those sea coloured eyes. “I’m not fae, John.”

Sherlock tipped down and lightly kissed John’s cheek. He could at least be close to the faun. This felt nice. Warm and sheltered. It was ridiculous. All of it. As if the bower that had been built for them touched him deeply in some primal way. He was still uncertain, but he knew he was not afraid of John. Quite the opposite. He _wanted_ to lay with him, hold him without these damn garments in the way. Feel the warmth of them together. 

“Demand it of me here, I will give it to you.” John brought Sherlock’s chin forward and lined up their mouths, barely brushing them together. Sherlock melted at the unexpected softness. He began undoing the buttons of his shirt before pulling it away from his body. He’d expected the panic to rise, but felt nothing more than anticipation. 

“Take me to our bed, John.” 

John wasted no time gently leading Sherlock to the inviting bed. The faun backing up to give Sherlock the chance to stop, leading him only with small kisses and the light touch of his hands.

He knelt then, pulling Sherlock to him and kissed him well. All other thoughts skittered to a halt as his hands found John’s deeply tanned shoulders, his neck, his hair. Fingers curled into the blond locks as Sherlock’s breath huffed across it, John’s face buried in the dark mass of curls at Sherlock’s nape. The soft lips moving back up along his throat pulled a deep moan. He was still half dressed and wanted it gone. Away from his skin. It was too hot. Tight. 

John’s hands moved to Sherlock’s hips and remained. He nuzzled his way down Sherlock’s skin before lapping at his navel as he worked at unfastening the trousers. Sherlock’s hands joined his and they undid them together. He was whining in his throat as his mind begged him to let go. John just bent lower and pressed chaste kisses from hip to hip as he lowered the rest of the clothing to Sherlock’s feet. 

“Your scent... is... delightful.” John once again buried his nose within curls, this time though, he lapped at the exposed skin and pressed Sherlock against the soft bedding. The lick became more ardent as he pulled first one, then the other testicle into his mouth. “So beautiful, like this... Sherlock.”

He let his hands wander against John’s skin as he trembled beneath his onslaught. His voice hitched, a moan caught in his throat as he bit his lower lip. John gently released the sensitive skin and made his way back up, caressing as he did so. The gentleness of his caress was intoxicating; he _craved_ more. To be worshiped, held close and physically cared for. He understood it then, the longing.

“I’m... John-” Sherlock groaned as his fingers ran up John’s lightly furred back to the curls of blond at the faun’s nape and held there, bucking into the sensation. “Yes, _please_.”

John continued to lave and suck, taking Sherlock into his mouth just to let it escape once again until he was fully erect from the ministrations of his gorgeous velvety tongue and dry warm lips. Sherlock pulled at the antlers then, just at the base and groaned words long gone. This was nothing as he had experienced it. He could feel the indwelling of light and laughter bubble within his heart; mirth he had not yet known was possible in lovemaking.

There was no rush, just heady longing and tidal need that ebbed and flowed between them. Sherlock pulled John up close once again, kissing him as he turned them over. The smile that met him was so honest it nearly broke him. Him. This did not happen, and by god... goddess... he would... accept it even as it humbled him. Warm hands began a study of furred to resined skin, Sherlock’s mouth busy with John’s own. He could feel the fullness of John’s cock at his hip and straddled him, a smile playing between their lips as he slotted them together.

“Sherlock, _elskling_ ,” John’s voice was low, strained with as much need as his own.

“This, just this.” Sherlock spoke against the soft skin of John’s throat.

His own heart echoed the one beneath him, teeth running along the thrumming pulse before he closed his mouth to kiss the tender bite. He _had_ to feel John come to completion, to pulse between them; in his hand, however it could be done. Wrapping his fingers around them both, Sherlock thrust against the faun’s solid, weeping cock; a rough growl pulled from him at the friction. He rubbed the slick with his thumb then worked it down their shafts as he twisted his wrist and rutted hard into his grip. 

"My mate," breathed John before slipping into language Sherlock did not know. The words fell like soft petals against his skin, gentling and encouraging him.

Sherlock's hand stuttered as John rolled the on their sides, warm tongue lapping honey from his mouth, swallowing his panting moans. He covered Sherlock’s long fingers with his own, steady strokes until his followed Sherlock over. The scent of their combined release filled the air, hinting of briny shores and arid lands. As sleep gently pulled at him, he felt himself arranged in John’s warm embrace. For once, he felt safe enough to finally let go. Sherlock settled, content.

[Saatelaev Playlist](http://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLoyfU46PkkYCPPdxLfADXaHTRY2jv18l_)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> elskling - beloved

**Author's Note:**

> No terms this chapter
> 
> Saatelaev ~ To Ship


End file.
